


You'll Be Back

by aurorasparrow (moonofmylife88)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AryaxGendry Week, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7606840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonofmylife88/pseuds/aurorasparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to Prompt 3: You'll be Back of AxG Week</p><p>Reunion fic because I've never written one before and because I can't get enough of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Be Back

She feels it the way she felt Weese’s hardest punch, back at Harrenhall, back when Gendry was, despite the danger surrounding them, still a godsdamn given. She doesn’t know why she hadn’t expected it, why she never could have seen this coming.

 _I’ll smith for you_ , he’d said. But not to her.

 _I’m sorry_ , he’d said. But that didn’t change the fact he was leaving her.

He couldn’t have meant it. But he did. Didn’t he? Stupid Beric knighted him and everything.

 _Why should I care_ , she’d said. But she did. Didn’t she? Otherwise she wouldn’t be so mad at him.

Arya watches as the firewood, still crackling with flames, smolders in the cool early night air. She can’t sleep. Abandonment has done that to her. She refuses to look his way. He’d tried to sleep near her the night before, but she’d moved away from him and closer to the fire. She didn’t need his warmth anymore, not if he didn’t mean to stay around to give it. He’d looked so hurt then.

He’ll be back, she thinks suddenly. She would be in Riverrun, practicing with Needle in the yard or wrestling Grey Wind in the godswood or running the castle passages and corridors, away from her lady mother who’d be trying to force Arya into a dress. And the stupid bull would come slinking over the drawbridge, another apology in hand. And she’d ignore him. Until he gave her that hurt look again. Then she’d punch him. Or hug him. She hasn’t decided which. Maybe both.

She is so certain she is right that she manages to curl up under her fur. She turns so her back is to the flames now and watches, across the way, as Gendry’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks in his sleep.

* * *

 He feels it the way he felt the blows from the Mountain’s men, when they’d been captured back at that fishing village. Back when he’d just found out who she was.

He’s in peak physical condition. All of his bruises and aches from Harrenhall and before are gone. He is fed well. He has gained all his strength back. Still, he feels like death. His body aches. His head pounds.

 _I’m sorry_ , he’d told her. He’d meant it. There were things she was still too young to understand. Even he doesn’t fully understand them. She’d been born in a castle. He’d been born in a tavern in Flea Bottom. But he’s a knight now. That has to mean something. But it doesn’t. Because she’s gone now. And, likely, he’ll never see her again. It would be one thing if she’d made it to Riverrun. He’d know where to find her then. But the Hound could be taking her anywhere. If he didn’t kill her first. This sets Gendry’s head to throbbing again.

 _Why should I care_ , she’d said. She couldn’t have meant it. But she did. Didn’t she? She’d run away. Not just from the Brotherhood. But from him too.

Gendry shifts under his furs. Her furs, really. He’d taken them after she was gone. They still smell like her. Gendry watches the flames crackle and spit in front of him. Thoros sees things there, but no matter how much Gendry struggles, all he sees is fire. It’s when he closes his eyes that he sees things. Arya running away. Arya taken by the Hound. Arya lost. Arya trapped. Arya dead.

She’ll be back, he thinks suddenly. He would be there in the woods putting the last of the fire out, come morning, or saddling his horse or sharpening a blade for Beric or Thoros. And Arry would come sneaking out of the trees, biting her lip, Needle at her hip. She’d be pleased to see him, even though she’d been mad at him before. And he would run and gather her up in his arms. He wouldn’t let her go, even if she tried to hit him or bite him. Then he’d promise to never leave her side. Or swear his sword to her. He hasn’t decided which. Maybe both.

He is so sure that, even as the sun slowly begins to come out of hiding, he is able to fall back into a deep sleep, clutching her furs, inhaling her earthy scent, her name on his lips.

* * *

 

She is supposed to be forgetting who she is. But the wolf dreams make it impossible. Every morning she wakes with the taste of blood in her mouth, the sound of her pack following close behind her. This morning is a little different. She awakes with a familiar smoky scent in her nostrils. And it takes her several long moments before she can remember why it’s familiar.

Shaggy long black hair. Sharp blue eyes. That stubborn look. A bull’s helm. It takes another long moment to place a name to the face. _Gendry_. The thought of the name should make her mad. After all, he left her first, didn’t he? Instead it just makes her sad. In her thoughts, she silently traces his thick eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, the strong muscles in his neck, shoulders and arms.

I’ll be back, she promises suddenly. And she doesn’t know where the thought came from. Because she has no plan for returning to Westeros. But when she thinks it, she knows it’s true. But she can’t think of a reason _no one_ would go to Westeros.

 _You aren’t no one_ , she hears. But it’s _his_ voice.

She shifts uncomfortably on her sleeping mat. He’s not there. And he didn’t really say that. But she believes him all the same. She closes her eyes and tries to pick the scent up again, but it’s gone. Because she’s in Braavos and he’s a world away.

So if she isn’t no one, she has to be _someone_.

 _You’re a lady_ , he tells her now. She opens her eyes. For some reason, the words irritate her.

 _I’m a wolf_ , she bites back.

And it’s true. But a wolf can’t be no one.

I’ll be back, she promises again. The thought is so comforting that the warm haze of sleep threatens to take her back under. As she succumbs to it, she thinks, it’s funny...in a way, she is still roaming the riverlands doing the work of the Brotherhood. Like him. In a way, she never left him.

* * *

 

He is supposed to be forging swords for the Brotherhood, listening to all of Lady Stoneheart’s commands without question. Kill them all. Every last one of them. Sometimes, it’s more than Gendry can stomach. He’s heard them beg and plead, the ones who said they weren’t there, that they had nothing to do with it.

In the beginning, when he’d thought she was dead at the Twins, he’d felt nothing. The more of them who died, the better. But then they’d gotten word of the fight between the Hound and the Mountain’s men at the Inn. And the little grimy boy with the sword. Then, he’d felt everything. Gendry had rushed there with Lem and Harwin, only to find overturned tables and chairs, blood stains that were still drying and death. But no Arya.

He’d settled into the forge there. Convinced Lem and Harwin to persuade Arya’s lady mother of Gendry’s usefulness there. Gendry was tired of seeing them all die. He wanted to make the steel come to life again instead. More than that, he wanted to bring her back to life. Wherever she was. And wasn’t the best place to start the last place she’d been seen?

He’d interrogated the man and woman who’d said they’d seen her. They’d described her in almost perfect detail. Down to the lumpy brown hair. The dark gray eyes. The long, thin sword.

Gendry shifts in his cot under the one raggedy blanket he owns. He closes his eyes and traces the long lines of her face again behind his eyelids.

I’ll be back, he promises suddenly. And he’s not sure what he means because he doesn’t know where she is, or else he’d be there already.

It’s the Inn, he knows. The Crossroads Inn. Arya went east. Eventually she’ll want to go north, most likely. But even if she wants to go west or south, she’ll have no choice but to pass his way. He doesn’t know what’ll convince her to stop at the inn. Not if she’s being cautious. Maybe the promise of a warm bed and meal. Maybe the promise of a sharp sword; he makes a racket in his forge throughout the day, after all. If those fail though, he’s always got one eye on the road. He doesn’t know how many times a day he stops his hammering just to peek out of the forge. He doesn’t know why, but he’s always expecting to see her. Sauntering up the road in that way she thinks is intimidating.

I’ll be back, he promises again. The thought is so comforting that he begins to doze off again. As Gendry turns toward the wall and closes his eyes so as to see her face again, he smiles wryly. It’s funny, he thinks, in a way, he is still doing the work she’d wanted him to do in the first place, smithing for her family, for her mother, Lady Stoneheart. So, in a way, he never left her.

* * *

 

She is going north. There’s nothing left for her south. Her list is all but crossed out. Her horse is uneasy. Nymeria and the wolves stay out of sight of the road, but the mare can still sense them. So can Arya, but they comfort her, not spook her.

She knows she is nearing the crossroads and decides it is almost time for her to leave the road too. But after another few hundred yards, she can’t seem to bring her hands to pull the reins sideways and into the forest. She’s not sure why, until the scent she’s been smelling for a while now reaches her brain. She has slipped partly into Nymeria without realizing it. When she fully merges with her wolf, the scent is sharper. It’s as if he’s sitting astride the horse behind her. She can hear the beating of a hammer against steel now too. She always fully appreciates her heightened senses when she is Nymeria.

Arya slips back out of her wolf and stops her horse, uncertain, thinking Nymeria’s nose might be playing tricks on her. Is that smell really there or does she just hope it is? If it _is_ there, is it really him or just another smoky-woodsy-smelling blacksmith? She has no choice but to find out. She spurs her horse forward again, unintentionally breaking into a trot faster than before.

The chimney comes into view first. There is no smoke, so the inn might not be functional. But, as the clanging sound becomes apparent to her human ears, she knows the smithy, at least, is being put to use. As she comes around the last bend of trees, she sees it. The inn near where she first lost Nymeria. The inn where she killed Polliver. And that speckled boy, the squire.

The clanging doesn’t stop, but Arya has trained her horse to be quiet. Arya approaches cautiously. She slides off her saddle, takes her horse's reins in hand and walks silently into the yard. A child sits silently on the railing, watching her. She tries for a wayward smile, but her eyes keep shifting to the forge.

Suddenly, her horse is braying loudly. Nymeria has leapt out of the clumps of trees surrounding the inn, sensing Arya’s uneasiness. Arya tries to shut the horse up to no avail. The clanging has stopped, and Arya’s stomach drops. She has been hoping to delay the moment that would reveal the identity of the blacksmith. Just in case she was wrong, and it was someone else.

Arya can’t move. She is standing directly in the line of sight of the forge and any moment now.... The door to the forge swings outward, and Arya drops the reins.

 _I’m back_ , she thinks. _You’re back_ , she thinks too.

* * *

 

Gendry is beating the sword on his anvil like he’s never beat a sword before. Sweat drips off his forehead and onto the steel, but he ignores it. The sword is red from the heat, but he’s seeing red too.

This is one of several times it’s happened already. That he’s seen an approaching figure on the road that looks familiar, and his heart has jumped into his throat because _she’s back_ , or so he had thought. This one hadn’t been her either. Once the girl had gotten closer, he’d seen that the girl’s face looked nothing like the one he was waiting for.

The sword didn’t deserve the beating it was getting, he supposed, but how else could he take his anger out? The first time he’d realized his mistake, many moons past, he’d punched a hole right through the wall of the inn. Some of the younger children had screamed in fright, and Willow had glared at him so fiercely...she hadn’t spoken to him after that for three days straight. Worse than all that, he’d peeled the skin off his knuckles so deep that he hadn’t been able to work for several days after.

His muscles are beginning to ache now. It’s been hours, he thinks, since the girl had slipped shyly past him and into the inn. He’d been glaring at her. It hadn’t been her fault though. Gendry had refused to go to the inn for supper, refused to look at the girl again whose silhouette reminded him of Arya. Instead, he’s worked non-stop since then. So now he is sore and tired and irritable and angry. And sad.

He has to stop this, he thinks. It’s destroying him. But he can’t stop, he thinks too. He will never stop searching for the girl with the stormy gray eyes, the lips plump from biting and the bossy tone. If she is dead, he has died with her, in this suffocating and hot forge. He will die forging swords for her mother, and she will never know. He won’t know either, he thinks. Maybe his ghost will just go on forging. Maybe it has already.

Suddenly, Gendry hears a horse. It is loud and frightened. Gendry drops the hammer and curses. He lunges across the forge and takes ahold of his sword, the one he finished forging for himself ages ago. He isn’t supposed to let himself off his guard, not since that tall woman and her companions had come through, not since he thought he’d killed the Hound. He hadn’t been prepared then. Thoughts of Arya were doing that to him.

Gendry sprints across the forge and slams the door to it open and out of his way. But the sight in front of him is enough to stop him dead in his tracks. His mouth drops open in surprise, in shock, in utter joy. He drops the sword too.

 _I’m back_ , he thinks. _You’re back_ , he thinks too.

* * *

 

He’s tall, she thinks. So much taller than when she’d left him. He isn’t what she’s been expecting. In her mind, he’d still be the boy who’d given her that look of dejection. He’s a man now. Her eyes roam his form. He’s even stronger than before. His hair still falls in his face, and he still sweeps it back, as he stands there looking at her like he’s seen a ghost.

She remembers thinking, way back, before the Hound had gotten her, about what she’d do when she saw him again, when he came back to her. Only, she’s the one who’s come back to him. Except...he stands there like he’s been waiting for this, for her to come back, ever since she left him. Or he left her. She doesn’t know which anymore. She doesn’t think it matters anymore either.

She’s supposed to hit him, she thinks. Or hug him, another voice from the back of her mind says, tugging for her attention. Or both. Instead, she just stares.

* * *

 

She’s beautiful, he thinks. She’s not the little girl he’s been looking for on the road anymore. He’s stupid, he thinks, for glaring at all those little girls as they crossed his path. He’d been looking for a little girl trying to look like a little boy, but she’s a woman now. He soaks everything in about her, the new and the old. The old way she’s biting her lip, hard, as she stares across the way at him as if she’s never seen him before. The new way her body curves and arches beneath her clothes, the ones made for a boy, but the clothes don’t hide that she’s a girl anymore.

He remembers thinking that he’s supposed to do something when he sees her again. But the way she’s looking at him prevents him from remembering what. There are other things, he thinks, he could do now, that he couldn’t before. A great many things. But he’s still not supposed to be thinking like that. Only, he can’t remember why either.

Hug her, his brain interrupts. That’s what he’s supposed to do. And never leave her side. Or swear her his sword. Or both. Instead, he just stares.

* * *

 

She’s the first one to move. The movement seems to shock him out of his senses because he gives a start and now he’s looking at her, not like she’s a ghost, but like she’s real and alive, and like he’s more unsure now what to do than he was when he thought she wasn’t real. But she knows what to do. At least she thinks she does.

She stutters forward and realizes her legs are trembling. So are her arms. But she doesn’t want to seem weak, so the stumble becomes a march. Until she’s right in front of him, and she loses her nerve again. Because instead of staring straight across at each other, he’s staring down at her, and she’s staring up now into eyes she now knows she’s seen behind her own eyelids every night since the last time she saw them in person.

He moves now.

* * *

 

He wonders what she’s doing. She looks determined, and she’s still biting her lip. It always comes back to that. Her and her teeth and her lips, and, before he can stop himself, he wonders what it would feel like if she was using her teeth on his lips or if he was using his teeth on her lips instead.

She stops right in front of him, and now her gaze falters, but she’s looking right up at him, and he’s looking right down into those gray eyes he knows better than his own. And suddenly he knows what to do.

He thinks he should be scared as he does it, but all he can think is that she’s here, she’s real, she’s alive. His arm snakes around her waist, and suddenly, he’s pulling her into him, as if it’s all he can do to keep them both alive. Her entire body tenses up against his, but only for a moment. Then she is wrapping her shorter arms around his neck and burrowing her warm, pretty face into his shoulder. Her feet leave the floor. But then so do his. And they’re on the floor, wrapped so tightly around each other that he doesn’t know where she ends or where he begins or whether they weren’t always one to begin with.

And they’re both saying it. “You’re back.” “I’m back.” Over and over. And he doesn’t know whose voice is whose or who’s saying what. But it doesn’t matter. Because, for so long, those words haven’t been true. And now, they are, and it’s all he can do not to cry.

* * *

 

She’s never hugged a man before. Not really. Not like this. There was her father and Jon and Robb, but their hugs had been comforting and protective. This is so much more. This is terrifying and tragic and euphoric and frenzied. It’s too much and not enough all at the same time, and she doesn’t know what she’s feeling, but she wants it to stop, and she never wants it to end.

Before she can stop herself, though she’s not sure she would have, she’s doing the only thing that’s come to her mind to do after the hugging, and it’s not hitting. She’s pressing her lips intensely against every inch of him she can reach. At first, it’s his neck. And he tastes like salt and smoke and wood and steel, and it’s the most delicious thing she thinks she’s ever tasted. Then it’s his jaw, rough with the stubble of hair he hasn’t shaved. He freezes when she first presses her lips against him, but suddenly he’s doing it too. And it’s a battle of who can kiss who the most and where. And his hands feel rough, but they’re gentle as they bring her face to his. And then it’s just his lips against hers. And she’s wrong, she thinks. There is something more delicious after all.

* * *

 

He’s never felt like this before. Not really. Not this strongly. He barely remembers his mother, but he does remember she used to kiss him on the forehead when it was time for him to sleep. He remembers she used to kiss his cuts and scrapes. But that was a long time ago, and Gendry’s forgotten what a kiss feels like, but he’s learning too because he’s never had kisses like these.

His skin burns, in equal measures pain and pleasure, every place she presses her lips against. Then her lips are on his face, and even though there’s some voice somewhere in his head telling him he can’t, he doesn’t care. His lips fight to find an inch of her skin too. And he’s pulling her hand up to his face and placing scorching kisses down her arm, to her wrist, to her palm, to the very tips of her fingers. Then it’s her collar bone, then her neck, then her ear, the top of her hair. He can’t take it anymore. As softly as he can, he takes her head into his rough hands and pulls her to him. When their lips meet, he thinks maybe he’s died, and he thinks he’s okay with that.

* * *

 

Later, they’re lying in his rickety cot, in his dingy forge, but Gendry doesn’t think he’s ever lived in a more perfect moment. Arya’s pressing her naked body, still slick with sweat, against his. She’s capturing his lips with hers, as if she never can again. And it’s like no time has passed since she was taken, since he left, since she left, since he was abandoned, but everything is different too. Gendry’s never lay with another woman before, but he thinks he’s done it right and, if he didn’t, he’d rather be wrong. He doesn’t regret a thing, and as he gazes into her eyes and caresses her face, he knows she doesn’t either.

“You came back.” He finally says it. The words have been waiting to be spoken, between his teeth and lips, but there had been more important things to do first.

“I came back.” She confirms, and now she’s biting his lips, instead of hers, and he knows how it feels, and he thinks he’s glad it’s a habit of hers.

* * *

 

She doesn’t think she’s ever been this happy. She’d known about coupling and what it entailed, but she’d never done it before now, so she hadn’t known how it felt. If she had, she might have done it ages ago. But, no, she thinks. That’s wrong. It only feels this way because it’s Gendry. And she’s glad she’s waited. Because somehow, this is righter and better than anything else. She’d seen the doubt in his eyes when she’d been taking off her clothes, but she’d kissed the doubt away. Now she was glad to see the doubt replaced with certainty.

She trails kisses along his upper arm, his broad chest, his strong neck, his shadowed jaw, until she reaches his lips, and she thinks this is better than breathing.

“You came back.” She repeats his words against his lips, then nibbles his lower lip, somewhat in confirmation that he’s actually there, that this is real.

His breath hitches. “I came back.” It’s a confirmation and a promise somehow all in one. And she knows she’ll never run off again. And she knows he’ll never leave her again. And there’s so much left for her to do, even with her list crossed off, but somehow she knows she can manage so much better than before, because not only is she not alone, she’s with _him_. And he’s back. And she’s back. And she swears neither of them will ever have to say those words again.


End file.
